


50 Sentences: MerlinxArthur

by hitome_bore



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Drabble Collection, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-28
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitome_bore/pseuds/hitome_bore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written using <a href="http://1fandom.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://1fandom.livejournal.com/"><b>1fandom</b></a>'s third theme set for 50 sentences, though they pretty much break every rule requiring them to be a "sentence" in length, save for the period at the end.  Call it creative license!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

*Most of these are standalone, except for 09 - 16, which are told in sequence. Enjoy!

01\. **Walk**

It had been bothering him for awhile before he finally voiced the question – “So what exactly is _knee-walking_ anyway?” – and when Arthur proceeded to demonstrate, quite skillfully, what it meant, Merlin could hardly think to do little more than gasp and say, “ _Oh_ … I- I think can learn that.”

02\. **Beauty**

Arthur isn’t beautiful, nor is he unpleasant to look at, but hearing the term ‘beauty’ being sighed by female servants in reference to the square jaw, slightly crooked nose, uneven teeth, and lopsided curl of lips makes Merlin want to laugh; Arthur is Arthur: a horrible prat and a demanding ass, who also happens to have broad shoulders, golden hair and clear blue eyes, none of which Merlin is determined to let matter in the slightest.

03\. **Catch**

“Ow!” Merlin cries out for the third time in several minutes, glaring up at the source of laughter floating down to him from the tree boughs overhead, Arthur’s grin partially obscured by the foliage and dappled sunlight coming through the swaying branches; “Come on Merlin, you can’t catch apples with your ears,” Arthur points out, and only because he sees it coming this time does Merlin manage to step out of the way and save himself from being hit by another green fruit, which he has a sneaking feeling had been aimed, deliberately, for his head.

04\. **Speak**

Arthur wakes up three times that night – once because the blanket has slipped off his shoulders and with the fire banked the house is cold, even when being shared by four other people; the second time because Merlin’s foot is in his face, big toe poking unpleasantly at his jaw, so Arthur feels justified in returning the favor until Merlin groans unhappily and flops over, taking his bare feet with him; and the third time because Merlin’s talking in his sleep, mumbling crossly, or in frustration, and Arthur is about to kick him again when what he hears makes him pause: “Arthur… no, don’t… I’ll protect you…” and it’s stupid really (Merlin protecting _him_?) but for some reason he can’t help smiling in the dark, and when he drifts off again, Merlin’s foot pressed against his shoulder, he doesn’t wake up again for the rest of the night.

05\. **Lack**

The room is dark when Gaius pushes open the door, but the shadows cannot disguise the hunched shape sitting on the bed -- the air feels suffocating and stifling, swirling restlessly as if it were emanating from the despondent boy with his head in his hands -- “I couldn’t…” Merlin says, voice rough, “I killed the beast but I couldn’t, couldn’t protect him… what good am I? I’m supposed to… but I failed him… he’s my destiny and I- I failed…” and when the words dissolve into tears Gaius can only gather him close, feeling the heaving sobs in the thin frame as Merlin stares down at his open hands, as if the answers for his failure might lie there.

06\. **Mine**

Arthur is angry, livid even, and Merlin is too tired after the grueling day he’s had knee deep in stable muck to feel much more than passing annoyance at being suddenly assaulted by so much self-righteous, meaningless claptrap, that when Arthur finally draws in a breath to start anew Merlin simply rolls his eyes and says, “What _else_ was I supposed to do? He’s a knight, I’m a servant, I can’t very well say no; he’d have me put in the stocks and I’m there enough already, thanks to you,” and though Arthur has every right to yell at him for the interruption he simply glares at Merlin for a moment before growling out his next words: “You will never again act under the demands of anyone unless it is on my authority, knight or otherwise; you are at my disposal only, and you would do well to remember that.”

07\. **Laugh**

Merlin isn’t even aware he’s been keenly listening for it until he trips over a crate of spare armor at the edge of the practice field in his haste to turn toward the sound, Arthur’s familiar, deep laughter following him down as the box overturns and the clang of metal brings almost every other activity and conversation on the field to a halt, and somehow the pain of one of the pauldrons digging into his back seems to mock him in time with the litany in his head that’s calling him, ‘idiot idiot _idiot_.’

08\. **While**

Arthur wakes to the roar of waves breaking on the rocks, pulled from a deep, dreamless sleep by the glow behind his eyelids that’s grown in brightness and irritation with each slow passing minute, and when he blinks open his eyes it is not the azure sky he sees but a long face capped by dark hair looking down at him, the wide smile there filled with so much joy and relief that Arthur has to snort groggily to tamper the elation rising in his own chest ( _alivealivealive_ ), and only when he turns his head does he realize that it isn’t the rocks he’s laying on, but leather-clad legs cradling his neck between a knee and a thigh; “You are such a girl,” Arthur accuses, voice rough and lips chapped dry from the salty air, and Merlin only laughs, the sound slightly broken and maybe surprised when a hand squeezes his arm: “Well, someone had to watch over you while you were sleeping.”

09\. **Youth**

“With the passing of youth we begin to take our first true steps into adulthood, and it is there that we gain the experiences vital to every man: courage, fortitude, and the wisdom that comes with age – to my son, Prince Arthur, on this day, the anniversary of your birth, I wish that the coming journey be long and enlightening for you, henceforth,” Uther says solemnly, lifting his goblet in Arthur’s direction, who sits flushed with equal parts pride, embarrassment, and wine, and accepts his father’s toast with a gracious nod of his crowned head amidst the applause of a full court eager to begin a full night of revelry, good food, and drinking to the good health of their beloved crown prince.

10\. **Stay**

The celebrations have been going on for the better part of the evening and the wine has only flowed heavier with each passing hour, loosening tongues and inciting laughter and toppling several knights off their benches – under different circumstances Merlin might want to join in the celebrations, but the long hours are wearing and making it harder to fight the urge to yawn and ignore the exhaustion that’s catching up with him after a full day spent in making preparations for this very event, and he’s a minute away from excusing himself from the hall to find his bed when Arthur turns to him suddenly, eyes sharp despite his rosy cheeks and mussed hair from when he’d taken off his circlet earlier, and says, “Merlin. Stay.”

11\. **Fill**

Merlin has settled on glaring sullen daggers at Arthur, having been too upset to do more than splutter a few angry, aborted words in Arthur’s direction when he’d been caught trying to sneak from the hall a few minutes earlier – for his part, Arthur’s feeling magnanimous (and drunk) enough not to make an issue of his servant’s display of insubordination, or at least not right away, as Merlin is the one still holding the jug of wine and Arthur’s cup is about to run dry (he doesn’t fancy having the whole pitcher dumped on his head), and after draining the last of the dregs he turns to squint at his insolent servant, empty cup lifted in silent demand for a refill.

12\. **Distraction**

Merlin shuffles forward with obvious reluctance, glare hardening when he reaches Arthur’s side, gaze boldly defiant in a way no one else has ever dared in his presence let alone gotten away with repeatedly, and this occurs to Arthur as being rather significant, monumental even, so as Merlin tips the jug to pour his wine Arthur clasps the pale, boney wrist with his hand, forcing Merlin to still in surprise or spill wine everywhere, and Arthur wants to tell him ‘stop, you can’t do this’ and ‘why are you always so difficult?’ and ‘I can’t protect you when you do this’ and ‘I don’t know why I put up with you’ but all he does is feel the steady pulse under his fingers and the soft touch of the leather wristband against his palm, and Merlin’s eyes are blue and angry and beautiful and he smells like kitchen spices and a day’s worth of sweat and Arthur can’t remember a single word he’d wanted to say.

13\. **Fear**

The grab is unexpected, Arthur’s clenching grip pressing the leather thong so hard that Merlin can feel the laces digging into his skin, and Merlin’s glares at the inebriated prince and subtle, meaningful tugs against the hand holding him captive seem to have no effect, as Arthur seems content to merely stare in drunken contemplation, brow flushed and pupils wide in the torchlight, wine moistened lips parting and shutting soundlessly as if the words dissolve away before they can gather enough to be spoken – and all it takes is the transition from one moment to the next, the clamor of the party lost somewhere in the background, before Merlin begins to feel more uncomfortable than angry, a trickle of real, genuine alarm chipping through the indignation of being manhandled; and something in his face must change because Arthur looks more aware than Merlin would have pegged him for this far into his cups and it’s like a crackle of _something_ between them: awareness of the contact, touching, _breathing_ , closeness laid bare and _knowing_ , and the sudden fear climbing in Merlin’s throat drives his instinct to pull away as hard as he can from the fingers branding his skin, as if they had the power to strip away everything to the core of his soul if he let them linger long enough.

14\. **Crash**

With Merlin’s luck, his escape from Arthur can only end one way: in disaster – the force with which his thigh hits the table registers as a sharp, sudden point of pain, but the momentum doesn’t end there, because he’s stumbling backwards, not so much to get away but because _he can’t help it_ , and things all go pear shaped as the jug of wine slips from his hand, crashing spectacularly to the floor in a mess of wine and crockery, and Merlin goes down on top of it all, feeling the bite of pain in his hands and wrists and the liquid soaking into his pants and lower back, and Arthur… Arthur’s sitting there with his mouth hanging open, half risen from his chair and with a look on his face of such dumb bewilderment that Merlin wonders if he’s grown a second head to top it off, and only when the crescendo of roaring laughter reaches him across the hall does Merlin let his eyes close and his head fall back to hit the stone floor, content to lie in a puddle of his own undoing.

15\. **Look**

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur says, the one, impatient word enough to make Merlin still in his single-minded effort to flee from Arthur’s bedroom as quickly as possible, collecting last night’s whirlwind of clothing that’s somehow managed to scatter itself all over the floor and into far corners (just one set though) and Merlin carefully balls up the breeches in his arms before turning to face the figure reclining before a spread of half-eaten breakfast, the morning sunlight catching off sleep tousled hair and the column of throat and chest laid bare by the unlaced nightshift, and Merlin’s heart stutters through a few painful beats at the sight, caught for a brief moment between want and shame and a feeling of helplessness so strong in the face of the bitter inevitability of his feelings, twisted and unrequited and condemning him to a lifetime of looking only, looking but knowing that even seeing will never be enough to fill the slowly widening hole in his chest.

16\. **Begin**

Arthur’s eyes are on his face, inscrutable and penetrating, but after a moment they fall to the bundle of clothes in Merlin’s arms, and Merlin knows that he’s looking at the linen bandages on his hands, wraps Gaius already had to change once this morning, caked with dried blood and stuck unpleasantly to the multiple cuts and ointment spread over his palms, and Merlin shifts uncomfortably, feeling the dull throb of his injuries and the lingering embarrassment of the previous night’s disaster with the wine jug – Arthur crooks a finger to beckon him closer, and when Merlin’s within reaching distance Arthur sweeps aside the clothes out of Merlin’s arms and leaves them to tumble to the floor as he takes one of Merlin’s hands in each of his own, mouth tight but fingers surprisingly gentle as they hold Merlin by the wrist and avoid the bloodstains seeping through the bandages; “Gaius has tended to this?” Merlin nods; “Then you will summon another servant to complete your duties, you are ill-fit to tend to me today,” and though it’s not entirely an apology, Merlin can feel the concerned slide of Arthur’s fingers over the hairs at the edge of the wraps and knows that, at the very least, it is a beginning.

17\. **Second**

Gaius would probably string him up by his thumbs if he knew what sort of casual abuses of power Merlin occasionally indulged in (most often driven by curiosity and, at times, pure reflex, rather than any conscious acknowledgement of toeing the line of being discovered and thrown to a quick end at the chopping block), but Merlin would be lying if he said that connecting with the most instinctual elements of his magic wasn’t a pleasure he gladly sought anyway, like a secret game to play with himself, and when he’s alone in Arthur’s chambers throwing bedding around and shaking out the drapes and beating feather down pillows back into shape, it’s difficult not to take a moment to admire the way the mid-afternoon sunlight pours through the tower window, scattering through dust motes and reflecting off Arthur’s collection of antique battle helmets; and all it takes is an indrawn breath, a heartbeat, a sudden feeling of calm washing over him, and then he’s watching the individual particles drift with unnatural sluggishness through the air, following gentle air currents that are now visible to his warlock eyes, one escaped fluff of down climbing and spinning lazily above the sheets, silky fabric caught in a slow, rippling descent back down to the mattress… and it’s so beautiful and peaceful – this brief, slowed second in time – that Merlin’s unable to resist lingering in the moment, drinking in every sensation and tracking every glittering piece of dust with his golden eyes, content to submit to this one, selfish indulgence for as long as he can make the second last.

18\. **Violet**

The signs aren’t terribly obvious at first – a bit of plant stuck between the links of Arthur’s chain mail, a scattering of dried petals on the casement ledge that Merlin sweeps out the window without a second thought, even the tied bunch of lilacs he finds resting innocently on his pillow seems more like Gaius’ way of telling him to keep his room clean than anything out of the ordinary – so it comes as a bit of a shock to find himself looking down at a rather sad looking collection of wildflowers heaped on Arthur’s table one afternoon, ragged stalks still dusted with soil and most, if not all, in varying shades of violet and purple, the guilty party responsible for the mess scowling fiercely and obstinately not looking in his direction; it takes a long moment before Arthur’s face pinches awkwardly and his blue eyes meet Merlin’s, snapping and challenging: “Just hurry up and take them you dolt. Put them in water or throw them out or whatever you do with your accruement of fauna. If I’d known your proclivity for mauve would only lead to a massive headache and a sunburn I would have-” but he doesn’t get any further because Merlin’s fingers are on his lips and his eyes are giving away the laughter he’s trying to hold in, and though he won’t tell Arthur that the flower from Gwen had been entirely accidental and that he doesn’t even _like_ purple all that much, he’s never going to forget the sight of Arthur with dirt under his fingernails and bits of dandelion fuzz stuck in his hair, or the way this gruff, clumsy gesture makes his heart warm more than anything else he’s ever felt in his life.

19\. **Candy**

Merlin would laugh at the sight of Arthur pacing a wide, cautious path around the small circle of beehives if he didn’t think that it might tempt Arthur’s into tripping him into the next mud puddle on their way back to his mother’s cottage (Arthur was boorishly predictable when it came to avenging his pride), so Merlin finished carving out a wedge of the pale honeycomb as quickly as he could, one eye on the writhing mass of bees (calmed for the moment by the pot of smoking burlap at his feet), and the other on Arthur who looked equal parts disgusted and distressed by Merlin’s easy pilfering – when Merlin returned safely with a pail of the broken honeycomb in hand he did laugh as Arthur pointedly steered them away from the clearing and back toward the village, and as they walked Merlin couldn’t help asking, “Have you ever tried honey from the comb?” (thinking of sticky pots in the castle kitchens but the real thing suspiciously absent), but the vaguely horrified look on Arthur’s face was answer enough, and Merlin couldn’t resist using the chance to thrust a small bit of honeycomb between the slack lips of his prince, watching Arthur’s expression change from angry to pleasantly surprised as he chewed thoughtfully on the wax, and if Merlin used those same fingers to sneak his own piece of honeycomb to his mouth, well, that was his secret to keep.

20\. **Nothing**

There had been nothing before – (which isn’t to say that they didn’t exist or have lives wildly independent from each other, mind you) but before _this_ , this pseudo-friendship and master-servant relationship, before the arguments and the funny hats and the idiotic demonstrations of loyalty and the whole I-will-die-for-you-will-die-for-me, they were only two sides that did not know they were even missing a piece of themselves, two parts to a greater whole somehow destined to sum up as more than its components, and before this there may have been laughter, love, tears, and life’s necessary lessons, but they were two boys living and not truly _alive_ – nothing to explain this feeling of wholeness, of pieces fitting together in odd and unexpected ways, of secret smiles that say more than words alone, and of a bone-deep trust that, strangely, needed very little to take hold; not unwelcome or unpleasant, but at times undeniable enough to be a bit unnerving (and possibly preordained) for it to have appeared from nothing at all.

21\. **Familiar**

Before Merlin, Arthur had never seen a servant taken to task with so much stubborn defiance, and if he isn’t complaining or rolling his eyes then he’s speaking to Arthur as if there wasn’t a chasm of rank and birthright between them, calling him names, questioning his orders, sticking his nose into matters that don’t concern him in the slightest -- and if that weren’t enough, Merlin seems to (mistakenly) think that touching Arthur outside the confines of his dressing room is acceptable behavior (friendly pats on the shoulder, whispering jokes while greeting visiting envoys, grooming lint from his coat idly during council meetings) and Arthur wants to scream at him (sometimes he does) because there’s a line being crossed here that servants are suppose to borderline fear and unquestionably respect, and yet Merlin seems oblivious to the existence of the barrier entirely; fearless and stupid and stuck in so many pieces of Arthur’s life that he’s come to grudgingly realize that cutting Merlin loose might be more trouble than it’s worth.

22\. **Show**

“Show me,” Arthur demands, panting for air, voice roughened by the cloying smoke coming from the fires ( _magic fires_ ) burning unchecked on the battlefield, smoldering the bodies of fallen enemies, and his hands tighten their grip on Merlin’s shoulders, making the slim frame sway under the weight of mail and metal gauntlets and so much anger barely kept in check that Arthur does not trust himself to release the man, _sorcerer_ , because his sword may be the next thing he touches; it rouses Merlin enough for him to meet those blue eyes (angryterrifiedbetrayed) and Merlin doesn’t hesitate, already bleeding freely as he draws on the magic, body exhausted and tongue tasting copper, and for the first time it hurts when the magic pours over his skin, like the sting of sweat on an open wound, and there are tears streaming from his eyes from the pain and the smoke and ash as dark clouds gather overhead, churning and thick, and there’s a clap of thunder to herald the rain before the downpour begins, extinguishing the fires and drenching the land… and Merlin starts back into consciousness, unaware he’d even blacked out, wet and hurting and more tired than he’s ever felt in his entire life, but there is a solid mass against his chest and heavy arms around his back, and he can hear Arthur speaking through the vibrations in his throat where his face is pressed, words that he can barely pick out over the pouring rain, “Merlin, Merlin, stop, that’s enough, for God’s sake let it go, _Merlin_!” and Merlin obeys without a second thought, slipping back into black oblivion.

23\. **Day**

The sun is warm and unforgiving on Merlin’s head and out here, surrounded by a panorama of farmland and rows of uncultivated wheat, the heat somehow closer to the earth and suffused throughout the fragrant soil and the plants that resemble the golden rays that fall unhindered onto them, the thought of spending the day mucking out stables (vile, smelly, but _indoors_ ) had quickly turned more appealing than surveying crop yields for that year’s granary stores – Merlin had removed his neckerchief well more than an hour before, applying it instead to wipe away the sweat pooling on his brow and behind his ears, and with every step he takes behind Arthur (walking tall and proud and completely unaffected by all of the blasted sunlight) he feels the brush of damp cloth under his arms and between his thighs and wants more than anything to find a well and cool shade; but Arthur is in his element, bare hands skimming the tops of bristling wheat stalks and conversing with the farmer who speaks mostly with his hands and in an accent even Merlin’s having a hard time deciphering, inquiring after things Merlin had no idea Arthur even knew the words to describe (and some things even Merlin’s never heard of before), and Arthur’s never looked so at ease in only a tunic and breeches and boots, neck and shoulders exposed to the sun and hair a golden crown that outshines even the most ripened of wheat, and Merlin has to admit that the sunburn he can already feel blistering his skin will probably have been worth it to see Arthur like this, stripped of every adornment and finery and bit of armament, and still as ever, undeniably, the future leader of his people.

24\. **Ask**

Sleep is slow coming to Merlin and his head feels more like a crowded box than the idyllic state of the deeply exhausted, memories circling in snatches and drawing up fragments of conversation from throughout the day, and the hushed whispers he’d overheard between Morgana and Gwen only a half hour earlier echo loudest of all, perhaps their quiet words more than Will’s lambasting or his mother’s firm belief in Arthur’s intentions striking a chord deep down he hadn’t wanted to explore or acknowledge, but now it’s there, asking for attention, for him to admit that maybe he hadn’t been entirely truthful, because as much as he defends Arthur’s sense of justice and his willingness to help others, he knows that this just… isn’t done, not at the risk of war, of angering his father, of throwing Camelot into discord for the sake of one muddy village outside of the kingdom, and certainly not for an incompetent manservant Arthur threatens to sack at least thrice weekly… and Merlin has to temper the urge to ask why, ‘Why did you leave?’ and ‘Why do you go so far?’ because they would be an admission of the things that have so far been better left unsaid – questions that, however innocent, might provide answers to things that Merlin isn’t ready to know, not yet.

25\. **Think**

“Merlin, you idiot! Did you even think… are you even capable of intelligent thought? How could you be so stupid!?” Arthur demands, bellowing with enough volume that Merlin has a feeling even the stone walls won’t prevent it from carrying through the castle, and it’s stupid really because Merlin _does_ think (even Gaius has admitted on occasion that he can be surprisingly clever), it’s just that he has this tendency to be impulsive, especially when it comes to Arthur’s safety, and Merlin thinks that all of Arthur’s manhandling and yelling is rather unwarranted when Merlin’s only gotten a few scrapes from nearly falling off the battlements (that cloaked figure had been frighteningly quick) and it wasn’t like he would have fallen anyway – whether saved by Arthur, who had been right there the whole time anyway, or by his own magic – and on the bright side there’s one less would-be assassin to deal with, a fair price to pay for a few bruises and a bleeding elbow, and really, Merlin thinks that last move might have deserved at least a little bit of praise – getting hold of the assassin’s cloak and using a bit of magic to throw him over the stone wall was a stroke of genius, even if he hadn’t counted on being knocked over himself – and it takes a moment to register that Arthur’s fingers are in his hair, ungloved, probing for lumps or blood or possibly a reason why Merlin hasn’t responded to him, and maybe Merlin _did_ hit his head because he finds himself grinning a tad smugly, watching Arthur’s face change from annoyance to concern to wary suspicion and then fond exasperation as Merlin starts to laugh, elated and clinging to Arthur in relief.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written using [](http://1fandom.livejournal.com/profile)[**1fandom**](http://1fandom.livejournal.com/)'s third theme set for 50 sentences. These pretty much break every rule requiring them to be a "sentence" in length, save for the period at the end. Call it creative license!

*All drabbles are standalone, except for 30 - 33 and 47 - 50, which are told in sequence respectively.

26\. **Hair**

It’s a distraction Arthur is determined to ignore (a ridiculous one anyway, it’s just _hair_ ), and he succeeds in doing so for all of forty-eight hours after Merlin’s sabbatical to Ealdor ends with his return to Camelot, more than a fortnight gone and Arthur emotionally exhausted from spending the time vacillating between indifference, anger, and loneliness, so it’s safer blaming the fatigue when he finds himself pinning Merlin against the heavy door to his chambers, lips hot over Merlin’s mouth and the rough scratch of the beard against his chin a sensation he never thought he’d find so wildly arousing or something he’d want to make a habit of feeling, but there’s no denying the way parts of him heat and ache in carnal satisfaction when Merlin’s mouth opens to his tongue, coarse hair brushing his cheek as he licks the corners of Merlin’s lips, and when they’re both panting heavily Arthur only manages to pull his mouth away long enough to say, “The beard stays.”

27\. **Home**

Merlin doesn’t stop thinking of Ealdor as _home_ for the first year he lives in Camelot, and for a long time after, his feelings are caught in limbo without a clear definition of where he belongs – drifting somewhere between cobblestones and tilled earth, narrow market streets and wild forests, stone walls and mud thatched roofs – and though Camelot gradually grows more familiar and less stupefying (though no less magnificent) there is too much history for Merlin to forget entirely; he’s spent a lifetime knowing one way of life, a mother and a village and a friend who was like a brother, summer afternoons exploring creek beds and cold winter nights sharing warmth with the pigs, each year a pattern that revolved around the changing seasons and not the whims of a high-born prince – but there are some mornings when he wakes, feeling warm and heavy and held down by Arthur’s arm across his chest, that he starts to think that this could be home too.

28\. **Loud**

It’s a bit of a surprise when Arthur discovers that Merlin is the vocal one while having sex, because the revelation doesn’t come until nearly a month into their intense affair and that’s something Arthur can’t help feeling cheated out of knowing, and therefore enjoying, much sooner; it takes a trip to the only unoccupied tower of the castle, hot in pursuit of a dog that’s been running loose and avoiding all attempts at capture (and while normally Arthur wouldn’t stoop to this sort of errand, Merlin has shown an uncharacteristic fear of the mangy creature and Arthur feels it’s in his best interests to prevent his manservant from fleeing in terror straight through a stone wall), but upon reaching the top of a herculean flight of narrow steps they find no signs of dog or human habitation, which Arthur feels justifies taking a well deserved break from the hunt; Merlin’s moans as Arthur takes them both in hand are obscenely loud with several thick walls and half a castle between them and the next human being, which only spurs Arthur to wring as many of the needy, guttural noises from Merlin’s throat as he can, and when Merlin finally comes in Arthur’s mouth with a whine and a sharp cry that sends a few roosting birds fleeing out the tower window, Arthur’s already planning the quickest way to have his bedroom relocated to the opposite side of the castle.

29\. **Travel**

The ocean is nothing like Merlin expects – the stories he’s overheard from traveling merchants have painted something more expansive and calming in his imagination, like the beach on a lake and water clear to the horizon without hills or forest to bracket it in – not this tumult of churning white caps, waves beating against cliff faces higher than any turret at Camelot, and a salt tang in the air that chaps his lips and stings his eyes as he blinks them against the late morning sun reflected off the water; when Arthur takes his hand and leads him to his favorite caves, shows him the tidepools he knows from childhood and the hidden caches of driftwood and broken shells still untouched after all these years, Merlin draws them against the damp stone wall and crawls inside Arthur with his lips and tongue, drowning in the taste of salt and sea, finally understanding the particular shade of blue in Arthur’s eyes.

30\. **Damage**

The shore is farther away than Merlin remembers swimming and he’s having enough difficulty just keeping his head above the water, let alone dragging the two of them back to dry land, and each time water sloshes into his mouth and up his nose he tries not to think about the body in his arms that hasn’t moved or _breathed_ since being hauled to the surface (he’s unaware that he’s been talking all the while, “just hang on,” “Arthur, you hear me?” “we’re almost there,” and “don’t you dare be dead!”), and the moment his feet touch the sandy bottom he’s scrambling and pulling Arthur and all his armor over the gravel beach and onto the grass, the water from their bodies turning the ground to slippery mud, and Arthur’s lips are already blue when Merlin falls to his knees, trembling from the cold water and a more chilling, bone deep fear as he places an ear over Arthur’s chest and strains to listen for a heartbeat in the heavy, empty silence within.

31\. **Strength**

Merlin’s hands are shaking as he struggles to undo the soaked leather straps and buckles of Arthur’s armor, his frustrated curses quickly turning into angry, clipped spells that shred through Arthur’s hauberk like parchment paper, metal parts and pieces clattering to the ground as he sweeps the broken links aside to tear at the quilted surcoat underneath and finally to Arthur’s bare chest, placing both hands against the cold (too cold) flesh, heart beating so wildly he isn’t sure for a moment if the rushing pulse under his fingertips is Arthur’s or his own, but something swells in him that moves him to action, memory or instinct or his magic, or maybe all three, his hands finding a rhythm that heats the flesh with every straining press, arms aching and heart cracking, and with the first choking cough that leaves Arthur’s mouth, brackish lake water spilling over his chin and neck, Merlin feels his own chest fill with a shuddering gasp that matches Arthur’s own, and he allows himself to slump forward as he turns Arthur onto his side, the curve of his back a wet and shivering barrier between Arthur and the rest of the world, drawing strength from the way Arthur curls against him and lets Merlin’s magic heat his naked flesh and coax him into a healing slumber.

32\. **Together**

Merlin hasn’t stopped shaking and he can’t stop touching the body cradled in his arms; he’s watching his hands run skittering, senseless patterns across Arthur’s back and shoulders, feeling the swell of unknown muscles, the ridges of scars he’s seen but not felt, the top of his spine, the curve of his ribs, the small of his back where a dusting of golden hair tickles the tips of his fingers; some part of him is still stunned that Arthur isn’t lying dead at the bottom of the lake, and however loudly the voice in the back of his head is telling him that this is _wrong wrong so very wrong what are you doing_ he can’t stop reaffirming the simple truth, fingers fluttering to check for the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, a trembling palm below Arthur’s shoulder blades, fingers leaving dry trails through his wet hair, a halting pass of his thumb across one, strong cheekbone – letting every point of contact be another confirmation that the man in his arms is alive and that somehow, improbably, they’ve managed to make it out of this mess together, intact and whole.

33\. **Pull**

With the stretch of minutes and the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, Merlin has given in to the urge to simply clasp Arthur’s half-naked body to him, sharing body heat to dampen the last of his own shivers and draw comfort in the simple contact, and everywhere Merlin’s hands move in their quest to chase away the lingering patches of gooseflesh, Arthur’s skin is dry and pinked with warmth, the pads of his fingertips attempting to erase the memory of unnatural paleness and blue-tinged flesh, drawing solace in the movement of each indrawn breath and the steady pulse under his hands – it’s terrifying in retrospect that this is truly the first time that Arthur’s life has come so close to the precipice, that that no small trick or quick spell could have turned the tide at the last moment as it has so many other times, and Merlin realizes this with a certainty that frightens him ( _if he hadn’t run fast enough, arrived a minute too late, hadn’t found him in the water in time_ ), and it’s neither wizard nor manservant that pulls Arthur a little closer in selfish comfort, feeling the remembered fear of failure, of being alone, of losing a friendship so precious and newly gained, and together they sit in silence as the sound of closing gates echo in the distance.

34\. **Safe**

Merlin’s teeth won’t stop chattering but at least they’re out of the freezing rain, and the damp earth floor of the small cave is a welcome change to the sopping mud they’ve been trudging through for the past quarter hour, even if it does smell a bit like the last animal to inhabit it (“It stinks,” Merlin had grumbled, and Arthur’s exhaustion hadn’t stopped him from snapping back, “Be grateful _it’s_ no longer here.”), and because any kindling was too wet to bother starting a fire they’ve ended up huddled together under the only dry bedroll between them (Arthur’s, of course), pressed back to back with Arthur practically breathing through the rear wall of the foxhole and Merlin still shivering like he hasn’t already stolen most of the blanket; it’s sensible, really, because Arthur doesn’t fancy inhaling an earthworm in his sleep, that he turns over and spoons behind Merlin, pressing a forearm to the skinny man’s sternum to quell the worst of the shaking, and when Merlin gradually stills, long minutes later, Arthur lets his arm linger and dare to tighten, briefly, relishing the warmth as Merlin sags into him, heavy, safe, and trusting.

35\. **Private**

Arthur’s guest chambers at Tintagel face the sea, with a broad lattice window that takes in the incredible view and much of the afternoon sun, and it’s not the first time Merlin’s found himself rooted in front of them, distracted midway on some errand to stand motionless in silent awe – the horizon lies at such a great distance that the cloud banks sit edge-on, stretching into different shapes and shades of white and gray and soft plumes that, in some places, stretch straight up into the sky, as if they could reach the sun, and where the ocean ends, only a soft haze marks the transition between water and sky, leaving Merlin to often wonder if he’s looking at the edge of the world, if such a thing is even possible, or if even the most stalwart sailor might be doomed to ride out for days and days and never reach the end – so preoccupied by the view this time around, he barely hears the rustle of sheets as the room’s other occupant rises from the bed behind him, and when Arthur’s sleepy weight presses against his bare back, chest warm and scratchy against his skin, Merlin leans into the loose embrace instinctually, accepting the dry kisses against his neck, and with only a soft sigh of protest for being drawn away from his perch lets himself be led gently back to bed, the sound of the ocean following him down into the arms of his prince.

36\. **Light**

Merlin’s gangly, thin frame is much too wanting to be called genuinely attractive: muscles too sparse and poorly developed, skin pale and near translucent over the veins of his hands and neck, face long and lips narrow and cheekbones sharp and shoulders prone to sagging in a way that push the knobs of his spine to the surface in prominent relief – but when Arthur has Merlin shoved against the wall, naked from the waist down and his own trousers pooled around his ankles, he has to marvel at the ease at which he can hoist Merlin with merely a hand on each thigh, directing knees and calves to wrap around his hips, and thrust into tight, wet heat with none of the exertion one might expect from carrying another man’s weight; Arthur loves how easy it is to control the speed as Merlin fucks himself on him when he’s laying on his back, how light he feels in his arms when he holds onto his bony hips and guides him to sink down on his cock, how easily he folds when Arthur pushes Merlin’s knees up to his shoulders and exposes his puckered oil-slick hole for Arthur to sink into, how clearly he can feel the pulse fluttering just below the surface in Merlin’s neck when he grips his shoulders and comes hard between the lips wrapped around his cock; and he loves how easy it is to drag Merlin across the bed to him, despite whatever sleepy protests he might issue, arranging feather-light limbs to his liking and spreading himself across Merlin’s skinny back so he can feel Merlin’s heartbeat, strong and steady through two sets of ribcages as if it were nestled alongside his own.

37\. **Big**

One week after the coronation, Arthur finds Merlin in his new quarters (large and with walls generously lined with bookshelves, most of which lie empty) bent over a map spread across a table larger than anything that could have fit through the door, his expression comically pensive (to Arthur, at least) as he circles the drawing, sometimes leaning in close or crouching to place his face at eye-level with the expanse of the table, and the true nature of the oversized map is easily realized when Arthur comes forward to observe, with miniature mountains and hills standing in relief to scale against the paper, blue rivers snaking across the countryside and thick green forests spread like whorls around tiny clusters of brown hovels and lush golden fields, each cleared patch of land crowned by a tiny castle at the center; it’s a massive atlas of Camelot and its surrounding kingdoms, Arthur realizes, and when he asks Merlin its purpose, his newly appointed Court Magician straightens and grins in a way that should be insolent but only makes Arthur more curious (“It’s Albion,” “I can see that, Merlin,” “I mean it’s your future kingdom,” “Planting ambitions for your King, I see,” “Yes, always,”), and though convention demands that he should find his Sorcerer making plans to conquer the entirety of a continent at least disturbing, if not downright treasonous, Arthur understands the spark of hope in Merlin’s eyes, the promise of a dream to bring everyone under the protection of Camelot and its King, to create a kingdom that not only stretches peace across the lands but through the ages, and though Arthur has barely dared to let himself contemplate ambitions this big, he wants to stand beside Merlin and claim the dream for himself and all of Camelot, no matter how impossible or what price might be necessary to make it come true.

38\. **Want**

There are few things Arthur allows himself to want outside of the scope of his duty to the kingdom and its people – a mild winter, rain for the crops, a few less monsters terrorizing the outlying villages, and a well trained army ready to defend Camelot and its citizens, to name a few – but Merlin’s introduction into his life has spawned a progressively longer list of desires that Arthur had, until then, been sure were trained out of him before his twelfth birthday: competent and timely service, for starters; a muzzle sometime around the end of week two when he’d realized that Merlin did not quite understand the meaning of “shut up”; for the fastest horse in his stables and a rare poisonous flower not a week after that; for a way to save a small village outside of his father’s kingdom without starting a war a few months after that; for Merlin’s fingers to work faster and pry off the dented armor where the jousting lance had hit directly over his old wound from the questing beast; for Gaius to find a cure quickly as Merlin lies thrashing in his arms, whimpering through a throat flayed raw from his screams, muscles convulsing and eyes flashing between gold and blue as the spell that had been aimed for Arthur ravages his manservant’s body, leaving Arthur helpless to do nothing but push back the sweat soaked hair from his brow and fervently wish Merlin to live more than anything else he’s wanted in his life.

39\. **Law**

Of all the ways and reasons Merlin could be caught for breaking the law, repeatedly lying to the King and harboring criminals and being a warlock among the list, this was the one thing he’d never expected to get punished for: caught in Arthur’s chambers with his pants down, hips snug and tight against the Prince’s arse, Arthur bent over the bed and Merlin braced behind him with one foot on the mattress, and both of them too caught up in the throes of approaching orgasm to notice that they were no longer the only two people in the room – which brings Merlin to later the same day, his hands in manacles and Arthur locked away securely in his own cell in the castle dungeons (temporarily, just long enough for Merlin’s punishment to be carried out without interference by a furious Prince), and honestly, how was Merlin to know that buggering the Prince was considered a serious crime (or that it might have been overlooked entirely had Arthur been the one doing the buggering instead?), but semantics seem to hold little weight when Merlin’s being strung up by the cuffs around his wrists by a grim face soldier carrying an ugly looking knout, and all Merlin can do as he hears the first whistle of the whip being drawn back is be grateful that at least Arthur isn’t there to watch.

40\. **Canine**

There is something mysterious and maybe a little alarming about how frequently Arthur’s teeth occupy Merlin’s thoughts, and in turn the lips that surround them, or how the sight of them is enough to coil something tight in Merlin that wants to leap across the distance between them and press his lips to Arthur’s mouth, rough and dirty and maybe just this side of possessive, the kind of hot, wet kisses that would give his tongue free reign to slide between Arthur’s lips and run across the uneven white teeth, the rough edges of his incisors and sharp points of his canines, tasting everything there is to find on Arthur’s tongue (that morning’s breakfast, wine after dinner, the sweet meats snuck between training, Merlin’s own salty sweat), feeling the hitch in Arthur’s breath when the kiss shifts just so and everything is perfect and heady and _there_ , rejoicing in the moment when Arthur’s tongue pushes back and his teeth pull gently on Merlin’s bottom lip, uneven and sharp and a little crooked – Merlin knows that in that moment all of his unrivaled fantasies would vanish with the slight sting of reality, swept aside by the touch of Arthur’s lips and the feel of his teeth on his mouth, the sensation better than anything Merlin has dared to dream, or allowed himself to secretly desire.

41\. **Truth**

It’s Merlin’s fault in the end for taking off his shirt right there in Arthur’s chambers without ducking behind the screen first (he’d forgotten how shocking it would look to anyone for the first time, he’d gotten so good at ignoring it himself), but the sudden cold fist of fear that punches through his stomach isn’t enough to jerk him out of Arthur’s strong hold as he’s swung around to face him in the candlelight, the sleeve still attached to his arm flapping futilely in an attempt to cover the scars on his chest, the same mess of twisted flesh that Arthur has already seen and is regarding with wide-eyed confusion (“Where did you get that?” “It’s nothing, your highness,” “Don’t lie to me Merlin, you didn’t have it a month ago,” “I can’t tell you,” “You will,” “I can’t,” “Why does the flesh look burned?” “It doesn’t-” “This kind of injury could kill a man,” “I wasn’t-” “When, Merlin?” “Please…” “ _How did you get these scars?_ ”), and Arthur is nearly vibrating with anger, eyes roving over the tangled web of shiny scar flesh where Nimueh’s fireball had impacted his chest, fingers clenched in a painful grip around Merlin’s forearm, and something in Merlin breaks a little at the brief flash of pain and confusion he sees in Arthur’s angry expression, sympathy and regret and resignation twisting like the scars over his heart – Arthur jerks as Merlin’s other hand covers the one on his arm, but he doesn’t pull away, and when Merlin tells him as much of the truth as he dares, the bargain and his mother and Gaius’ sacrifice and his final confrontation with the sorceress and the freak lightning storm that killed her, Arthur only moves to grab the back of his neck and call him an idiot with tears in his eyes.

42\. **Smoke**

They don’t often go overnight on hunting trips; only when the game is unusually scarce and leads them far enough from the castle that returning in daylight becomes impossible will Arthur choose a clearing to set up camp (Merlin will be told to collect firewood and Arthur will appoint himself the task of spreading out bedrolls and cleaning any small game they might have caught for dinner), and when dusk eventually gives way to the true black of night and they have a cheerful fire crackling at their toes, the smell of pine sap and animal fat in the smoke over their heads, is it easier to notice how close their sleeping mats have been placed next to each other and to welcome to the flush of anticipation when Arthur settles under his blanket and watches Merlin, blue eyes dark and silently beckoning, and for a few hours it’s easy to forget the master and the servant and press close to the solid weight of a friend, eager lips and fumbling hands hidden by the blankets and desperate moans swallowed by the smoke and the night.

43\. **Order**

There is a natural order to the world that Merlin finds himself observing with equal parts admiration and fear, all too aware that when it comes to magic, the balance that Nature seeks to maintain will often bear unexpected weight on the consequences of a spell beyond the caster’s intent (whether it be for good or evil) and that the greater the impact upon the world, the greater the price exacted – from his early efforts at mass rat exterminations which led to the horrifying surge in the cockroach population (Merlin learned the hard way that it’s better to banish a creature to the far side of the continent than kill it), or that a stream redirected to flow closer to a farmer’s field will demand an earthquake to shake the neighboring village, or that throwing balls of fire across a battlefield will gradually consume the very air from around him (and hadn’t it been embarrassing to wake up in Arthur’s tent and find out he’d fainted dead away in the midst of the conflict), and that one of the cardinal rules of the Old Religion will always stipulate that the cost for a human life be one of equal payment, and thus is the one bargain that Merlin refuses to ever strike again – but it doesn’t stop him from searching for loopholes in the unwritten rulebook, and as the narrow barge takes the still-warm body of Arthur Pendragon through the open gates of Avalon, Merlin feels a spark of pride through the soul ripping grief; that at least, this once, the natural order of the world has been bent by the force of destiny and his promise to wait through the eons for The Once and Future King to rise again.

44\. **Feel**

The heaviness on Merlin’s back is hot and blanketing and slightly suffocating, but the effort needed to shove off the weight of a full grown man would take more energy than Merlin is capable of, lying half-asleep on his stomach and not quite sure what awoke him in the first place, his eyes blinking into the inky blackness of Arthur’s bedroom – not even a glimmer of moonlight is present to offer illumination into the prince’s chambers and Merlin contemplates conjuring a light (hardly much of a risk when Arthur is this dead to the world), but after a moment dismisses the urge as he feels his exhaustion attempting to pull him back into half-formed dreams, whatever disturbance or shift of movement that woke him no longer a silent pressure on his nerves; Arthur snuffles into the back of his neck as Merlin presses into the broad chest draped across his left side, hand sliding across the sheet to find the end of the heavy arm hanging loosely around his waist and tangling his fingers with Arthur’s when he finds them, feeling the familiar bumps of calluses and still-healing scabs, the wiry hair on the back of his fingers and the blunt nails worn down and cracked at the tips from hours of training, and with a deliberate tug brings their clasped hands higher to lie against the side of his ribcage, letting the feeling of Arthur’s fingers splayed warm and wide across his chest lull him back into sleep.

45\. **Finish**

The fight had started like so many others: someone had declared their intent to enter the conflict, the other had called them an idiot, and in no short time they were reduced to shouting at each other with barbs that ranged from slights against brain capacity and intelligence to slanderous assumptions about birth and parenthood, and when Arthur realized with a small jolt of guilt that he’d just implied Merlin’s mother had slept with a codfish to conceive him, Merlin gave him no time to ponder the merit of an apology or to simply brace for the come-back as he advanced upon Arthur and shoved him back against a tree at the edge of the clearing, their doused campfire still smoking in the morning fog, and cuffed the side of his head before grabbing him with the same hand and shoving their faces together, lips mashing uncomfortably for a moment before they angled their heads to improve the kiss (Arthur with some help by the hand fisted in his hair), and despite the raw heat the kiss was harsh and angry and probably meant to berate Arthur as much as Merlin’s words had sought to do, never mind the perverse pleasure Arthur found in it anyway; when they both pulled away, panting roughly, Merlin leveled a look at him and spoke in a thick voice that spiked through Arthur’s groin like molten heat, “You idiot, you never let me finish. You’re not going there without me. Someone’s got to make sure your royal arse doesn’t get killed, and that’s final. Got it?”, and Arthur figured that didn’t even deserve acknowledging as he reeled Merlin back in with a hand on his neckerchief, already forgetting why they’d been arguing in the first place when Merlin’s lips still had a sheen of spittle he would be happy to remove with his tongue, but Merlin’s smile against his mouth made him think that he’d somehow said yes anyway.

46\. **Through**

Immortality isn’t something that Merlin expects, not at first at least, though in retrospect the comments Arthur had liked to make about his uncannily youthful appearance a decade, then two decades into Arthur’s reign as High King of Albion, should probably have tipped him off that things were happening a bit differently for him than it did for the aging faces around him; when Arthur is slain and Camelot falls, Merlin’s grief is all-consuming, occupying his days like a wool blanket that distorts his perception of the rest of the world, and only when the pain of losing Arthur numbs to a bearable ache behind his breastbone does Merlin reemerge without any acuity of the time that has passed in the interim (and in fact could hardly care less, when it is simply time spent without Arthur); he gives his magic leave to carry him to distant lands where the memory of Camelot is not even a whisper on the wind, visiting villages and towns and cities and distant kingdoms, learning new languages and befriending the intelligent and the eccentric – it’s only after he begins to retrace old ground does the truth begin to sink in, when the reason for small towns blossoming into cities and friends passing away in his absence becomes clear and Merlin comes to accept the nature of his boon and his curse, destined to remain unchanging through the ages, to watch lives wink in and out of existence and see monarchs and countries fall and rise anew, to see the world as it grows smaller and less mysterious and what new ways man comes up with to destroy himself, and await the day when Albion has need of her King again.

47\. **Race**

After two years in Arthur’s service Merlin’s horse riding skills are still nothing to brag about, but he’s come far enough that he no longer fears the beast under his legs might attempt to eat his foot or throw him without provocation, so when they set off from the castle one late summer day on a hunt and Arthur throws a familiar, challenging grin over his shoulder, Merlin is already kicking his mare into a gallop to give him a slight, but brief, lead over Arthur’s more powerful mount as they race across the empty golden fields and jump small rocky streams, grinning and breathless from the thrill, or the company, or maybe both.

48\. **Need**

They and their horses are sweaty and windblown when they stumble upon the burbling sound of a waterfall in the forest, and Arthur doesn’t even bother with the pretense of gathering his crossbow from his saddle as they dismount at the edge of the small pool, a sandy beach and flat, dark rocks surrounding the clear water, the falls a narrow, tumbling cascade of white that makes the air misty and cool – Merlin’s only got his boots kicked off, shirt half-way over his head, when Arthur’s naked body sprints from the beach and launches into the water, legs pulled tight against his chest, and Merlin manages to stop gaping only when Arthur surfaces with a loud whoop, laughing and shaking the cold water from his hair, looking beautiful and irresistible.

49\. **Splash**

Merlin’s entrance into the pool is a bit less impressive but no less refreshing, and he and Arthur spend a few minutes diving and cutting clean strokes through the water, exploring the perimeter of the pool closest to the beach and enjoying the warmth of the sun on their faces, and when the novelty of exploration becomes boring Merlin makes the first move, hands shoving Arthur’s shoulders under the water, legs wrapped around the other man’s broader chest, and the wrestling grows progressively more juvenile and dirty until they’re shoving waves of water at the other, laughing and choking and demanding for surrender – Merlin doesn’t notice when the splashing from Arthur stops, so when he’s pinned from behind between two arms, his surprised struggles last long enough for Arthur’s lips to find his neck and for his tongue to lick away the water under his ear, teeth grazing the cool skin and drawing a shudder from Merlin that prompts every muscle in his body to go lax, and the splashing thereafter is more subdued, punctuated by soft moans and the sound of wet kisses, whispered words and playful grins, hitching declarations panted into wet shoulders and pale necks carried away by the sound of the falls.

50\. **Thrill**

Arthur’s floating on his back while Merlin’s swimming lazy dog paddles around him when Merlin looks up at the waterfall and says, “I bet I could jump off that,” and Arthur says, “I bet I could beat you up there,” and then they’re splashing noisily and racing to the wet rocks on the far side of the pool, pushing and grabbing at ankles and shoulders, each trying to get a lead over the other; Arthur, the bloody cheat, hauls himself out of the water with a foot against Merlin’s chest and scrambles up the rock face, Merlin hot on his heels and probably unfairly using the position to admire the view of Arthur’s naked hips and thighs – they reach the top in a wet, breathless heap, and then they’re standing on a flat boulder next to the falls, panting and grinning and taking a moment to admire the view of the forest, a glint in the distance that could be one of Camelot’s turrets sparkling in the sunshine, deep indigo water under their feet and a frothing sheet of white water at their backs; Merlin feels something warm unfurl in his chest as Arthur’s fingers slip through his, clasping their wet palms together, and when Arthur grins and tugs them toward the edge, Merlin can only smile back and follow him down.


End file.
